Letters From Heaven
by FrUKing Awesome Canadian Hero
Summary: AU.  When Francis and Arthur parted on less-than-desirable terms two months ago, Francis never dreamed that he wouldn't ever get a chance to apologize.  But when he is given the note from Arthur's pocket, is there still the most impossible chance of hope?
1. The Crash

**A/N: Well, this started as an extremely depressing oneshot, and then it sort of... grew. I randomly _AHA!_ed at one in the morning last night, and this beginning was the result, closely followed by a Flying Mint Plotbunny. These aren't really chapters, even; they're more of a series of oneshots all closely linked to form a story.**

**This beginning is loosely based in the song _Not Over __You_ by Gavin DeGraw. You may want to look it up and listen to it once before you read this, just because it should put you in the right mood.**

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><p>It had been two months.<p>

Two long, torturous months had passed since their last fight, and through those months, Francis Bonnefoy had felt as though he was slowly slipping away into blackness. He felt lonely, even in a crowd of chattering people. He overslept on most days and ended up being yelled at by his boss for coming to work late. And when he got home every night, he would stare at that picture and listen to the radio until he fell asleep.

The picture was nothing special, really; it was of him and another man with beautiful green eyes, laughing together as Francis chased him with a rose. The photography wasn't even all that great. But to Francis, it was all that he had left.

Why had he been so stupid and careless, to let something so beautiful slip away?

Arthur haunted his dreams now; a million ways Francis could've apologized that night always ran like movies, and he would wake up with quiet tears streaming down his face just before Arthur's soft lips brushed his own. He _needed _that kiss, _needed _that touch, even if it were only for a moment. He needed Arthur.

Francis had tried drowning his sorrows many times—even that didn't work. They knew how to swim.

He sighed, getting to his feet from the couch and turning off the radio. Francis looked at the picture one last time before carefully folding along the careworn creases in the paper and tucking it into the pocket of his coat. He had to get out of here, had to go do something. It was better than sitting here alone.

Francis closed the front door behind him, stepping out into the cool night air and closing his eyes against the memory that forced its way into his mind. He started off down the sidewalk on the short stroll to the one place he was sure he'd find refuge. But that didn't stop the heart-wrenching scene from chasing him down.

_"I hate you!"_

_ Francis's heart lurched as he stared into the green eyes that had suddenly gone cold to his desperate gaze. Sure, they'd said that they'd hated each other many times before, but now Arthur's face was closed and emotionless. He bit his lip, turning away._

_ "Arthur, mon amour..." Francis immediately regretted all that he'd said before. He wanted to make this better, right now, right here. He quietly approached Arthur from behind, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder._

_ The hand was thrown off. "Just leave me alone, you stupid frog! What part of 'I HATE YOU' do you not understand?"_

_ Arthur turned to glare at him with a look of pure fury and hatred that sliced Francis's heart in half. There were tears of anger and frustration in those green eyes, and Arthur shook his head._

_ "You lie, you cheat, and you play stupid games. We're over. Just leave me alone."_

And he'd strode out into the same cool evening breeze that Francis walked with now.

Francis had made to follow him, and nearly caught up, but Arthur had whirled around and hit him so hard that he'd had a handprint-shaped bruise on his cheek for the next six days. And Francis had stopped, tears streaming down his face as he watched Arthur run away.

_"S'il vous plait... Don't go,"_ he'd whispered.

They hadn't spoken since.

Francis pushed open the door to the town library, smiling a little sadly at the warm, homey glow that always seemed to fill the place. It was nice to lose himself between the shelves and escape reality for a while, even if it was only a minute. When Arthur had been with him, the two of them would sit together at one of the cozy little tables in the back; Francis would read, and Arthur would work on his newest novel. Francis had always thought it cute how the Brit needed glasses to read, and although Arthur had hated them, Francis had always loved how they made his beautiful green eyes stand out.

Francis realized he had been sitting here, staring at the empty chair across from him for fifteen minutes now. He sighed, pulling himself to his feet and trudging off to look for a book. Somehow his heart wasn't in it tonight. Well, to be quite frank, his heart wasn't in anything anymore—Arthur had stolen it long ago, and it was like a disobedient dog that refused to come. The more he tried to get it back, the more it shied away. Maybe it was tired of abuse.

Finally just picking a random book and flopping back down with it, Francis was just about to start reading when his cell phone rang. He jumped and stared down at it apprehensively.

Now who could that be? Surely his boss wasn't going to yell at him for another missed deadline, but there was hardly anyone else who called him anymore.

He checked the number, and suddenly realized; it was Arthur's younger brother, Alfred. He answered.

"_Bonjour_, Alfred," he smiled, glad to hear from the cheerful young man again. But the voice on the other end of the line that replied sounded nothing like the cocky American that Francis knew.

"Francis, where are you?" Alfred asked, voice shaking. He sounded like he was about to cry.

"Er... the town library, why?" Francis replied, suddenly feeling confused and scared.

"All he wants is to talk to you. I'm coming to pick you up right now."

"Alfred, _who?_ What happened?" he asked desperately, biting at one of his fingernails worriedly. He closed the book quickly, leaving it on the table, and pulled on his coat.

The voice on the other end cracked, taking a deep, trembling breath. His words made Francis's heart stop.

_ "A-Arthur was in a car crash."_

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><p><strong>AN: So, you like it so far? Feel free to drop a review if you have any advice!**


	2. The Death

"He w-wanted to see you," Alfred murmured as they drove up to the deserted stretch of road that was bathed in flashing red lights. He wiped furiously at his eyes.

It didn't look good. Francis's heart was pounding in his throat, his stomach suddenly churning with fear and his ears barely registering the words when Alfred spoke. "I've already talked t-to him, but h-he just wanted y-you..."

As soon as the car had slowed, Francis leapt out and ducked under the yellow caution tape that had roped off the area. A huge semi truck was twisted off the road, its entire front smashed in on itself and the trailer on its side. Francis's heart stopped again, and it was only sheer willpower that kept him breathing in the shock. He was only vaguely aware of Alfred next to him, or of the policewoman who was approaching with tears in her eyes.

He looked around desperately for Arthur, wanting him to come walking out to them yelling at Alfred for bringing 'that frog' here, and then he wanted Arthur to come and smack him across the face and demand that he leave. Francis wanted Arthur to be okay. That was all. _Please, God, if you even exist, please let Arthur be fine. Let this all be some cruel prank. Please, please, let Arthur Kirkland be okay! Do you know Arthur Kirkland, God? _ But as he scanned the desperate scene, he felt hot tears pricking his eyes when no feisty Brit came stomping toward them.

On the other side of the road, closest to them, was a smaller car, this one with the driver's door smashed open and the body almost completely destroyed. He knew whose car that was, sitting crushed on the side of the road. A soft hand on his shoulder was all that kept him from breaking down.

Francis turned to see the policewoman, looking up at him with tears in her light brown eyes. She didn't seem the type to cry.

"Are you Arthur's boyfriend?" she asked quietly.

Suddenly it all hit Francis in the face. Arthur wasn't okay. He was probably dying. And he'd wanted to see _Francis._ Free, glassy tears began sliding down his cheeks.

"_Oui_," Francis murmured.

He followed the woman through the wreckage in a daze, the sirens and flashing lights all fading to background noise. His vision swam with tears, and he bit his lip to keep from crying openly as suddenly the woman stopped in front of a place where the pavement was clear except for a dark figure, lying there with his body twisted at an angle that shouldn't have been possible. The woman turned to Francis, taking him by the shoulders and meeting his eyes.

"Arthur is hurt in a way that—that he shouldn't be alive and talking. If we move him..."

Francis nodded, tears streaming down his face again. He understood. The woman looked like she was about to cry too, seeing him so heartbroken, but she forced herself to continue in a shaky voice.

"The way he was hit, his back and hips are broken. He—he just wanted you. Said it was important..."

She shook her head helplessly. "I'm so sorry."

Francis nodded, shoulders shaking as he turned his back on the woman and started toward Arthur. His face was bathed in the red lights, green eyes fading. Francis fell to his knees beside the Brit who suddenly seemed so weak, when he normally refused to give in.

"Francis?" Arthur whispered, his voice rough and weak. Francis nodded, his tears leaving little dark spots in the fabric of Arthur's shirt.

There was a moment of silence as Arthur reached up to touch Francis's face, his weak hand brushing some of the tears away.

"D-does it hurt?" Francis finally asked, placing a hand over Arthur's and suddenly feeling how cool it was. The pulse in his wrist was weak and irregular.

"A little," Arthur replied, and with a jolt, Francis realized that there were tears streaming down his face as well.

"I'm so sorry," Francis forced out, shoulders shaking with a quiet sob as he bent over Arthur, desperate to find the familiar light in those green eyes.

"I am—am too," Arthur whispered weakly. Francis shook his head, crying harder.

"You shouldn't be," he murmured. "It was a-all my fault."

More light faded from Arthur's green eyes, and he struggled to keep Francis's face in focus. He couldn't feel the warm, sweet breath on his face but knew he should. A shaky gasp, he forced himself to breathe. Breathe. Breathe for Francis. He smiled weakly, desperate tears sliding down his face as he felt his own heart begin to fail.

"K-kiss me, you frog..." he pleaded.

"As you wish," Francis whispered, openly sobbing now.

Francis leaned over him, cheeks soaked with tears, and took Arthur's face in his hands as he brought their lips together for the very last time. Arthur kissed back with the last of his strength, crying too, but his tears were cool against Francis's face; not warm, like they should be. Each movement was loving and drawn out, before finally Arthur fell back. His green eyes were nearly lifeless, and he looked up at the blurry shadow that was Francis, not feeling the hot tears dripping down onto his face.

There was one more thing he had to say, as the world was slipping away into blackness. His heart sputtered and stopped.

"I-I..." he whispered with his last breath. "love y-you..."

Arthur didn't hear Francis sobbing his name, didn't hear the stream of whispered _je t'aime_s, didn't feel the kisses all over his face. Francis's body shook with sobs as the last of the light in those green eyes went dormant, leaving him alone on the street.


	3. The Funeral

A single man sat alone next to the coffin long after everyone else had left. His head hung low in defeat, blond waves falling around his face. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. Francis didn't get up, didn't move, didn't speak. The man in the coffin was not the Arthur he had known.

He couldn't be gone.

But deep down, Francis knew he was.

If he had called Arthur and apologized earlier that night, he would not have died. If he hadn't started that fight, he wouldn't have died. If Francis would've stopped him from running away two months ago, Arthur would've been safe in his arms right now, and they would have been whispering words of love to each other. They could've gotten married. They could've started a family, spent the rest of forever together.

Francis's shoulders shook with another stifled sound of grief.

Arthur could've lived.

_Why, God? Why did he have to die? Can't you take me instead?_

He didn't even look up as the sound of a door closing interrupted the silence, ringing in the empty room. Quiet footsteps approached him from behind, and a soft hand on his shoulder made him close his eyes, wiping away some tears in a halfhearted attempt to compose himself.

Francis opened them again, staring listlessly down at the floor. The tears he'd wiped away were quickly replaced.

"_Salut_," he murmured in acknowledgment of whoever was behind him.

"Hello, Francis," Alfred's voice answered quietly.

Francis looked up to see the face of Arthur's younger brother, his eyes red-rimmed but a small smile managing to make its way onto his lips. Francis smiled weakly back; he had almost forgotten how, in this one short week since Arthur's death.

"How are you?" Alfred asked.

Francis shook his head. "I would think that's obvious," he muttered, but managed to keep his tiny smile. He stood from the chair, drawing a shaky breath.

Alfred held a small, folded square of paper out to him. "A-Arthur had this in his pocket at the crash," he murmured. "I think he'd want you to have it."

Francis looked at the folded notebook paper, then took it gratefully. He pulled Alfred into a tight hug, still crying quietly. He needed something to hold on to, to keep him sane without Arthur.

"_Merci_, Alfred," he whispered.

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><p>Francis's house was quiet and empty as he sat down on the couch. The tears had dried on his cheeks, but that didn't make him feel any better. There was a gaping hole in his heart where Arthur had used to be.<p>

Remembering the little folded paper, he pulled it from his pocket and carefully opened it from the neat square, recognizing Arthur's messy writers' scrawl immediately and taking a shaky breath before beginning to read.

_Dear Francis,_

_ I don't even know why I'm writing this right now, since I'll be telling you in person in a matter of hours anyway. Guess it just helps me get my thoughts together; after all, there's a lot that needs to be said. I can just see your face right now, so stop smirking._

Under normal circumstances, the letter would have been right on cue; Francis would've indeed been smirking at Arthur's obsessive need to have everything laid out ahead of time, but now he was crying again. The letter sounded so much like Arthur that he could almost feel the Brit sitting next to him, saying these things in the accent Francis had never gotten a chance to tell him how much he loved.

_ First off, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for running out on you, I'm sorry for yelling, I'm sorry for never telling you how much I loved you. Now that I think back, I wasted two precious months of __our time together, and time is something that can never be recovered. I don't know if this will make you feel any better or not, but I haven't slept well since that night, and when I do dream, it's always about you._

Francis had tears streaming down his face, shaking his head. That was Arthur; always so determined to blame himself for everything. But it hadn't been his fault; even an idiot could see that. Why, _why _had Francis waited so long to apologize himself, when he should've known it would be too late?

_ Even though we don't see each other hardly at all anymore, when I have caught a glimpse of you around town, you never look happy like you used to. Sometimes there's tears down your face, and sometimes you just look exhausted. Alfred told me you've been having trouble getting to work on time and that your boss keeps yelling at you for it. I swear to God, I never meant to hurt you this badly. But when I think back, what I said was cruel and heartless. I should've known that was why you haven't called me. I don't blame you for staying away._

Had this really been what he'd thought was the reason for Francis's long silence?

"Oh, Arthur..." Francis whispered, shoulders wracking with sobs. He'd thought Arthur had _wanted _him to stay away. He'd thought he was helping by leaving the Brit alone... Francis forced himself to read on, even though it felt like his heart was being torn in half.

_Honestly, I can't believe how long it took me to figure out why I was so angry that night, but what it comes down to is that I was scared. I was scared that you were moving on from me, scared because I didn't want to be hurt. Is it silly to be afraid of falling too deeply in love with someone? I guess I've always been the one who's overcautious about trying things that are new, but this time I really blew it. _

_ Will you forgive me, Francis? I can't say in words how much I love you and how sorry I am. _

_ Can you please forgive me?_

_ I love you._

_ Arthur_

For a long time, Francis sat there on the couch, reading that letter over and over again until he practically knew the words by heart. Tears refused to stop streaming down his face to drip and soak the paper, blurring the light blue lines but leaving the ink miraculously untouched. Arthur's words were the only thing that Francis had left to hold on to, and he clutched at them desperately, searching frantically for some way that the man in the coffin might not be his beautiful Arthur, for some impossible, unthinkable glimmer of hope. But only darkness came to greet him, laughing cruelly at his unbearable agony.

Francis fell asleep on the couch that night, the letter in his hands and tears drenching his face.


	4. The Letter

Francis flopped down at the table, feeling worse than he had in days. He still missed Arthur, wanted to just curl up in a hole and cry for the rest of his life, but today his boss had made him come in to work. He'd actually been on time, but the man had still found something to chew him out about. He didn't seem to notice that Francis simply didn't respond, just stood there with his head hung low in defeat and let the man rant.

"I miss you," he whispered, picking up the letter on the table. A single tear slid down his cheek as he read the words again, wishing with all his heart that Arthur was still alive. He didn't care where or how; all he wanted was for the Brit to be safe.

_Why, God? Why Arthur? He had such an amazing life ahead of him... Could you bring him back? I'd do anything..._

Francis had reached the signature at the bottom, and now silent tears were pouring down his face. Without even thinking, as though he had meant to do it all along, Francis picked up a pen, flipped the letter over, and began to write.

_Dear Arthur,_

_ I miss you. So much. Will it ever get better from here? They say it does, but I'm not so sure. Can you tell me?_

_ If you really are in heaven, like everyone always says to comfort me, you will know that when I read your letter, I was crying. Oh, Arthur. There's nothing you need to be sorry for! I was the one who started that fight, without thinking of whatever consequences may come of it. I should've come to you, begging on my knees for you to take me back, but... honestly, I was scared. I thought I was making things better by leaving you alone. I thought that was what you wanted._

_ I can't ever sleep either. Are you doing better, up there in heaven?_

_ You did hurt me, yes, but you made me happy as well. I was the happiest fool on earth simply to be able to hold you and love you and make you blush. I loved to make you blush. Arthur, it is better to have loved and lost than never loved at all. Have you heard that saying? I love you. Je t'aime. But now I've lost, and my heart's been ripped in half. Whatever you did to hurt me, it was nothing compared to having you ripped away from me by some drunk driver in a semi. And nothing will ever make me quit loving you._

_ Oh, but your cautiousness was one of the things I loved about you in the first place. You don't see much of that anymore, and when you do, it's priceless. Don't blame yourself for my mistakes; I should've been straight and honest with you, but instead I tried to sugar-coat things and gave you the completely wrong idea._

_ I love you too._

_ Please come back to me. I need you._

_ Love,_

_ Francis_

Although he felt a little better, the writing still didn't calm the aching loss in the pit of his stomach, and Francis shook his head, leaving the letter on the table. He put his head down, burying his face in his arms, and let the tears flow.

Francis didn't eat that night; he sat at the table and cried.

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><p>The next day went almost exactly like the one before it; Francis didn't sleep, his boss was pissed, and he came home exhausted and sad. He was just about to crash on the couch when suddenly a yellow piece of paper caught his eye, lying half-folded on the table. Francis moved to pick it up, realizing it was a page torn from one of Arthur's old writing notebooks. Now who would've...?<p>

His breath stopped in his throat.

Could it possibly be...?

_Dear Francis,_

_ Don't blame yourself. It was both of our faults, not just yours or mine. I feel terrible for not getting to truly apologize, but... if letters from heaven are the best we can do, then so be it._

Francis felt hot tears streaming down his face again, making no move to stop them. Was this some kind of a cruel joke? You didn't just write to someone who was dead and expect to get a reply. But here the letter was, his for the taking. Did Francis dare believe it?

_Yes, you bloody wanker, it is me. Not just some mean prankster on the street. God heard your prayers._

_ Even as I write this, it sounds stupid, considering I never believed in God before... but, well, I guess you learn something new every day, eh? Francis, you, of all people, should know what I mean by that._

Francis nodded shakily, smiling as he bit his lip to hold in a sob. It was Arthur... no one else could possibly write the way his Brit did, and this was _him!_ He could almost sense Arthur next to him, reading the letter aloud; barely there, but just out of reach.

_As to sleeping better up here... Well, as much as I hate to admit it, I think you should know that I've been doing almost as much crying as you lately. I miss you so much. And I always feel lonely without you to curl up next to. It's terrible, really. I just want to come home again._

_ They do say that heartache heals with time, but at the moment, I just want to find whoever 'they' is and sock them in the head. Are you hurting this badly too? Well, if your letter was any indication, you definitely are, and all I can say is that I love you, and you'll make it through. You'll move on, whether it's days, weeks, months, or years from now, and I'm sure you'll feel better eventually. Just know that I'm watching out for you, Francis. Alright?_

_ Je t'aime aussi, Francis. Please don't tear yourself up on my account; it hurts me to see you blaming yourself about everything. There was nothing you could've done to keep me from dying, and even if I am dead, that doesn't mean I'm not still with you. Most of all, it doesn't mean I can't love you from way up here._

_ Je t'aime._

_ Arthur_


	5. The Scars

It was a long year for Francis, his heart aching like a gaping void even as he felt it begin to heal. The pain was never completely gone, and there always seemed to be a hole where Arthur had used to be. Slowly their letters went from _I miss you_s to daily information, until finally Francis received a single sentence as the only reply.

_I'm coming home._

But two months passed after that, with no response to whatever letters Francis would write. He should've known it would be too good to last, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to feel angry or neglected. He only missed Arthur all over again.

That was why he was taking some roses to his grave today.

The December air was bitterly cold, tiny snowflakes whipping through it on sharp, feathery-light wings. The ground was full of snowdrifts from the relentless wind, but somehow Francis didn't mind it as he walked among the silent gravestones with their withered flowers. He was lost in thoughts of Arthur, wishing the letters had been able to last but knowing deep down that they simply couldn't have. He should've let Arthur rest in peace to begin with.

"He said he was coming home, God," Francis murmured quietly, feeling the snow crunch softly under his boots. "I wish he would."

Francis rounded a corner, suddenly surprised to see another man standing to face Arthur's gravestone, hands in the pockets of his gray overcoat and his back turned to Francis. The man didn't turn, but nodded in acknowledgment of the person behind him.

For a moment the two of them stood in silence, before finally the strange man spoke.

"Did you know him too?" he asked quietly. Francis noticed that he had a heavy British accent, and nodded his head sadly.

"I loved him," he whispered.

"Do you still?" asked the stranger.

Francis smiled, feeling tears threaten to prick at his eyes, all the same. "With all my heart," he murmured, voice cracking a little.

The stranger drew a shaky breath. "You always were too sentimental for your own good, frog," he whispered, before throwing himself at Francis in a huge hug.

Francis found himself being tackled down in the snow, Arthur's arms around his neck as though he never wanted to let go again. He took one look into those beautiful green eyes, shining with tears, and pulled Arthur's slim body close to him.

"You came back, you came back..." Francis sobbed, kissing Arthur all over his face.

"God heard your prayers," Arthur answered, tears running down his face as he clung tightly to the man he hadn't been able to hold for a year and two months, exactly today. He kissed Francis full on the mouth, tasting the sweet vanilla he'd missed for so long and sobbing harder, happy beyond words.

"I thought I'd never see you again," Francis whispered against his lips.

"Me too," Arthur murmured. "I'm so sorry it took me this long to get back."

Francis finally broke away, looking into those green eyes earnestly. "What kept you?"

To his surprise, Arthur blushed a little. "Oh, um... Well, my body was so damaged that... we kind of had to repair it. I've still got scars, but I'm alive again."

Francis nodded, not completely understanding but simply glad that his Brit was back, and alive, and safe. Arthur seemed to sense this, and pulled up one of his sleeves to the elbow. Francis gasped.

Where smooth, clean, pale flesh had used to be, there was now a mottled scar. Arthur pulled up his sleeve further, revealing that the scar ran all along the back of his arm—where it had skidded against the pavement.

"My whole back and this arm had to be replaced," he murmured. "When I got thrown out of the car, all this skin got scraped up beyond repair."

Francis nodded numbly, pulling Arthur into a tight hug once more. "Just promise you won't leave me again," he pleaded.

Arthur kissed his forehead, tears streaming down his face all over again. "Cross my heart, love. Cross my heart."


End file.
